


Rules Are Made To Be Broken

by IndigoNight



Category: Leverage
Genre: F/M, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, Frottage, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi, Mutual Pining, Pining, Polyamory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-21
Updated: 2017-12-21
Packaged: 2019-02-18 03:25:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13091427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IndigoNight/pseuds/IndigoNight
Summary: Eliot has rules when it comes to sex.First of all, he doesn’t mess around with infidelity; it’s messy, it opens him up to unnecessary risks, and frankly, he might be a bad guy but he has some morals. Secondly, he doesn’t make promises he can’t keep. He’d learned that the hard way a long time ago, it’s not a mistake he’s about to repeat. And most importantly, he doesn’t get mixed up with members of his crew while on a job.Which means that Eliot really should have known better.





	Rules Are Made To Be Broken

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Reallife](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reallife/gifts).



> A gift for Reallife for the 2017 Leverage Holiday Exchange. I ended up sort of smashing together two of your prompts and I really hope you like it.
> 
> Thanks to all of my chat buddies who sprinted, encouraged, and cheered for me. I wouldn't have finished in time without you.

Eliot has rules when it comes to sex.

First of all, he doesn’t mess around with infidelity; it’s messy, it opens him up to unnecessary risks, and frankly, he might be a bad guy but he has some morals. Secondly, he doesn’t make promises he can’t keep. He’d learned that the hard way a long time ago, it’s not a mistake he’s about to repeat. And most importantly, he doesn’t get mixed up with members of his crew while on a job.

Which means that Eliot really should have known better. But the job was supposed to be over. And it was supposed to be a one time deal. Hardison transferred the plans to Dubenich, and they walked away.

Except Eliot’s on the second half of his circuitous route back to his truck when he stops short at the sight of Hardison. Hardison, who is young and inexperienced and standing on an exposed street corner playing around on his phone like he doesn’t have a care in the world. Hardison who is flighty and overconfident, but has enough brains to match that confidence and is somehow, inexplicably, charming - in spite of, or because of his ridiculousness, Eliot hasn’t yet decided.

“Oh, hey,” Hardison says, drawing out the y for about three syllables too long. He hadn’t looked up until Eliot was almost within touching distance, and Eliot hadn’t been trying to stay quiet. This kid is going to get himself killed, and soon, if he doesn’t start developing some better habits. But that thought clearly hasn’t occurred to him; even after he saw what Eliot did to those guards, he doesn’t show even a single micro expression of fear at being unexpectedly approached by Eliot on a dark street corner. Instead, he’s wearing a crooked sort of smile that’s shy and awkward, but genuine.

Eliot doesn’t really consider himself as having _ a type _ . He’s definitely a man who enjoys variety. But there’s something about that crooked little smile, that almost hopeful, vulnerably unguard smile. Eliot takes Hardison back to his truck, and Hardison directs him to an apartment that hasn’t actually been lived in yet.

It turns out, Hardison isn’t quite as inexperienced as he looks. He’s also hiding a lot of impressively well defined muscles under those juvenille clothes. 

“Gotta stay fit, you know,” Hardison says, when he notices Eliot’s appreciative look. “I go to- I mean, I used to go to like comic cons and stuff. You heard of Star Trek? Stupid, everyone’s heard of Star Trek. I’m just saying, no such thing as an overweight Klingon.”

Eliot doesn’t dignify that with an answer. Instead, he sets about finding the best way to get Hardison to stop talking altogether. As it turns out, there are a several, and Eliot thoroughly enjoys every single one of them. When they’re done, Hardison falls asleep almost immediately with a big dopey grin on his face. It’s almost adorable except for how incredibly stupid it is. Eliot catches himself lingering far longer than he should; unsurprisingly, Hardison is a cuddly sleeper, and Eliot can’t deny that it’s nice. 

When he does leave, he does it silently while Hardison’s still snoring. They’d both known the score going into this, but he leaves a note anyway, because his momma raised him to have manners. Later, he doesn’t remember what exactly he wrote - he leaves a lot of notes, and he tries never to write the exact same thing twice, but it’s always a variation on the same theme. Polite, complimentary, but noncommittal. 

That should have been the end of it. Except less than four hours later Hardison is waving a gun in Eliot’s direction - mentally, Eliot bumps  _ accidentally shot himself like a dumbass _ several notches higher on the list of most likely ways this man will die. Eliot should have seen it coming, but it’s Nate who figures out the double cross, Nate who just barely gets them out of that warehouse in time, and Nate who shows them how to get revenge.

Sophie may be a terrible actress, but Nate was right, she is the best damn grifter. And somehow, with her around, something changes. They’re better; they’re  _ good _ . They demolish Dubenich, and they get almost disgustingly rich doing it. And suddenly, one time only isn’t enough.

Which means that Eliot  _ really _ should have known better than to go back to Hardison’s apartment again. He has a flimsy excuse about having left something behind prepared, but he doesn’t need it. Hardison opens the door with a grin so smug Eliot is almost tempted to try and punch it off of his face, but he goes for kissing instead - it’s the opposite of effective, but Eliot finds that he doesn’t mind so much after all.

Maybe it’s the high of a big score, Eliot tells himself. Or the victory against a shithole like Dubenich. Or the fact that Eliot feels  _ satisfied _ in a way that he’d almost forgotten was possible to feel after a job. Whatever it is, he and Hardison go four rounds that night. They end up sweaty and exhausted in a tangled heap of sheets, and it’s so easy, so  _ good _ . Eliot doesn’t manage to shut Hardison up this time, but that’s okay, it’s almost better. There’s a camaraderie that punctuates their sex, jostling and bickering and teasing that should have been annoying but isn’t. Instead it just leaves him feeling light and almost giggly as Hardison flops down onto the mattress beside him, eyes heavy lidded and expression soft.

It feels good. Dangerously good.

Eliot’s instincts kick in and he’s rolling out of bed almost before he’s processed the intent to move. There are apologies, excuses on his lips, but when he turns back toward the bed Hardison is leaning up on one elbow and holding out Eliot’s shirt. There’s something like understanding that’s maybe mixed with a little bit of disappointment in Hardison’s eyes, but he doesn’t say anything, and he doesn’t ask for anything either. 

Eliot takes his shirt, and the rest of his clothes. He still feels like he should say something, but everything he can think of feels like a lie, or a platitude, and Eliot has a feeling that Hardison doesn’t want that. So Eliot makes due with a nod, and a noncommittal farewell. Hardison just gives him a mock salute from the bed and doesn’t bother seeing Eliot to the door.

Eliot doesn’t need to leave a note this time, but as a last minute impulse he finds a scrap of paper and scribbles his phone number down on it. It isn’t necessary - undoubtedly Hardison has already ferreted out every one of Eliot’s phone numbers somehow, but it’s the gesture that counts. He leaves the scrap of paper on the kitchen counter and closes the door behind him quietly.

*****

They’d said they’d pull another job together, but it was vague. So Eliot waits. And while he’s waiting, he takes another job, and then a job after than. And when his phone finally rings while he’s finishing up a job in Berlin, his heart does a little flip. It does another flip when he answers the call and hears Hardison’s velvety voice on the other end.

Not that Eliot will ever admit to it.

When they become an established team, when they become Leverage, the rules get blurrier. He hasn’t stuck with a team in so long, and he’d had his reasons for that. But this is somehow different. This fills a hole in his chest that has been empty for so long he’d almost forgotten about it. It’s more than a job, more than a team even - or at least, it could be, someday. It’s still new, still fragile, none of them very good at trusting or working together. But Eliot can see it, almost like a mirage just out of reach on the horizon, the promise of what they could be. 

Which is all the more reason that he should stop sleeping with Hardison. But no matter how firmly he steels his resolve, Hardison gives him that crooked, suggestive smile and it all goes right out of the window. They don’t do it all the time; they don’t even really do it often. Maybe once a month, when the mood strikes. And it isn’t always Hardison who makes the first move, because Eliot really does have tissue paper resolve when it comes to these idiots, apparently.

Even after they part ways, after they use the two Davids to screw over Nate’s ex-boss, Eliot still does his job. He keeps an eye on his crew. He knows that Nate and Sophie both end up in Boston, though he doesn’t think they know about each other. He knows that Hardison goes back to his Nana’s house, and that he tries to track Parker digitally with very little luck. He knows that Parker goes to Vienna, to Riga, that she stops in at the Smithsonian before touring her way across Canada; he doesn’t ask what she’s doing at any of those places. 

Then they’re reunited in Boston. And they settled down again. And more than ever, things feel good, feel right. Even when Sophie leaves, even with Tara who isn’t Sophie but still fits in well once they all get used to each other. Even when Nate is falling apart and losing control. 

The longer they work together, the easier it gets. Eliot gets used to Parker’s oddities, he learns to read her, comes to understand her. He learns Hardison too; Hardison who is not nearly as simple or naive as he seems. And he watches Hardison and Parker learn each other. He watches them delicately dance around each other, watches Hardison reach out and Parker pull away only for her to come back at Hardison from a sideways angle. 

It’s getting harder and harder for Eliot to stick to his rules.

It doesn’t help they’re almost always on a job now; Nate always seems to have at least three cons in the works. And Eliot hasn’t made any promises to Hardison, not specifically, but the promises are there, to the team. The team that’s becoming a family. The team that’s becoming Eliot’s whole world. Continuing to have sex with Hardison endangers everything they’re building, because sex has a tendency to make things messy. It makes things even messier when the person you’re having sex with is falling in love with another member of the team.

Eliot sees it coming. It’s like looking at a painting in the gallery, or, at least he thinks so. It seems so simple, laid out in front of him, Sophie and Nate, Parker and Hardison, perfect pairs once they work out the kinks. The problem - the thing he forgot to even consider - is where his own spot in that painting might be. And he can’t even be mad about it, can’t be bitter. He can barely even be jealous. Because Parker and Hardison complete each other in a way that Eliot hadn’t really believed possible until he started seeing them come together, until he saw the places where they fill each other’s gaps, support each other’s weaknesses and match each other’s strengths.

So Eliot tries to pull back gracefully. Not all at once, because Parker isn’t really ready for what she and Hardison could be yet, and because, at the heart of things, Eliot is far from a selfless man. But he starts saying no when Hardison gives him  _ the look _ , sometimes. He tries, more than ever, to be Hardison’s friend, and only his friend. He tells himself that that’s enough, that it’s better this way. Because Eliot wants things that Parker won’t offer, and Hardison needs things that Eliot just can’t be, and even if either one of them wanted him the way they want each other it just wouldn’t work.

Then there’s Moreau. And that goes… better, really, than Eliot thought was possible. Eliot tells himself it’s for the best. Parker is finally ready to accept what Hardison offers; and Hardison, well, after finding out the truth about Eliot’s past, after  _ the pool _ , Eliot honestly doesn’t expect Hardison to want him in his bed anymore anyway.

It’s fine. It’s for the best. Eliot tells himself that he’ll bow out gracefully, just like he’d always planned. And it works, for the most part, until the Mexican drug cartel makes the mistake of putting Hardison in a coffin.

*****

Eliot stares at the screen of his phone.

_ Go be with Hardison,  _ it reads.

Eliot blinks a couple of times, and forty seconds after the first text comes a second.

_ I mean sex _ .

Well, if there’s one good thing to be said about Parker, she doesn’t like to be ambiguous. Not that Eliot intends to do it. Because it would be a bad a idea, a monumentally bad idea. Even if Parker’s okay with it - which isn’t news, she’d known what was going on between him and Hardison for a long time, and she’d never shown any jealousy toward him, not the way she did when Hardison flirted with other people. Despite Eliot’s maudlin predictions, Hardison has made a couple of suggestions since they took down Moreau, but he’s never pushed it, never tried too hard when Eliot pulled away.

But it’s been a rough day. It has been… an exceptionally rough day. And if Parker wants Eliot to go to Hardison, that means that she can’t be with Hardison herself; which Eliot doesn’t blame her for, dealing with Javier and the Wicketts had been almost as hard on her as it had been on Hardison.

So Parker needs space, and whatever else is - or isn’t - between them right now, Hardison shouldn’t be left alone.

As far as excuses go, it’s pretty solid. He’s just being a good friend, checking up on Hardison, making sure he’s okay. It isn’t about sex. He tells himself that at least a hundred times as he makes his way to Hardison’s apartment. 

Despite owning the building Nate lives in, Hardison set up his own house on the top floor of another apartment building a few blocks away; it’s possible Hardison owns this entire building too, Eliot’s never bothered to ask. It’s a nice apartment, though relatively modest compared to the places he’d used while they were in LA. It’s mostly one large open room, divided by furniture and counters into a kitchen, living room, and pseudo-workshop, with only the bedroom and bathroom sectioned off.

When Eliot knocks on the door it takes a full two minutes for Hardison to answer. Eliot can hear him moving around behind the door, a distinctive type of awkward shuffling and Eliot does his best to ignore the way it makes his chest feel tight. “Hardison?” he calls, “open up, it’s me.”

Hardison opens up. He’s wearing track pants and an oversized hoodie that had probably once had a college logo on it but is now so worn and faded it’s unreadable. He smells of fresh soap and there’s a slight dampness about him that say he’d just gotten out of the shower. His eyes are red rimmed.

“Uh, hey man,” Hardison greets. He rubs the back of his head, shuffling his feet as he stands in the doorway, hunched over as though trying to make himself seem smaller. His eyes shoot past Eliot, glancing toward the elevator and then sweeping up and down the hall, toward the windows on the exterior wall and back again.

“Hey,” Eliot says. “Parker said-” he starts, then he stops, suddenly unsure of what else to say. But Hardison doesn’t ask, and he doesn’t look surprised, he just takes a step back and holds the door open so that Eliot can come in.

The apartment looks the same as it always has; a small crooked pile of dirty dishes in the sink, bits of wire and partially disassembled computers all over the workshop set up in the corner, and a sewing machine taking up most of the kitchen table. But the suit that Hardison had been wearing earlier is tossed in a careless heap on the floor, two damp towels slung over the back of the couch, and Hardison is just standing in the middle of the room with his hands sunk into the pocket of his hoodie, his eyes too wide and blinking too rapidly.

“I got the confirmation that Javier’s crew has been picked up,” Eliot says, trying to fill the uncomfortable silence when Hardison fails to speak.

Hardison nods, his head bobbing a few too many times. “Yeah,” he says, because obviously he got the alert too, he’s the one who set the whole thing up after all.

And… Eliot doesn’t know what else to say. He should. He should have been thinking about that on the way up, should have at least considered it. This is hardly the first time he’s had to help someone struggling with a near-death experience, he should definitely know what to do here. But somehow, this is different. Because it’s  _ Hardison _ , because Hardison is soft in a way that is a weakness but also one of his greatest strengths. Because Hardison is also flexible, adaptable; Hardison bounces back. Nervous rambling, Eliot would have been prepared for, would have expected to be honest, but this awkward silence Eliot does not know how to deal with.

So he does what he always does when in doubt - he goes for the throat. “Are you okay?” he asks.

“Yeah, sure, man,” Hardison says, too fast, “Of course. You know me-” He turns away from Eliot, starting to pick up the towels and bits of clothing strewn about. “It’s over, right?” he adds, his voice going from too fast to too quiet. He’s clutching his discarded pants in one hand, but the other hand is pressed against his breastbone, rubbing at it absently. “The job’s over. We won. All of the bad guys are in jail.”

Eliot closes his eyes, takes a breath, and closes the distance between them. Gently he extricates the pants from Hardison’s grip, gathering up the rest of the suit and draping them in a neat pile over the back of the couch. “It’s over,” he confirms. He keeps his voice low, careful, not because he actually thinks Hardison will spook, but because Hardison is worth the extra effort. He turns back to Hardison, reaching out to grip Hardison’s wrist and pull his hand away from his chest before he can wear a whole in the already too thin sweatshirt.

Hardison’s breath hitches, his eyes flicking from Eliot’s face to his hand and back again. But instead of pulling away he sways into Eliot’s grip, just a little bit. “You don’t have to-” he starts, but his voice cracks.

“You aren’t okay,” Eliot cuts in. He can feel Hardison’s pulse under his fingertips, too fast, anxious and flighty.

“I will be,” Hardison insists. “I just… I need a shower.”

Eliot raises an eyebrow at the two damp towels already draped over the couch, but he doesn’t call Hardison on it; he, of all people, understand the urge to try and wash away a bad day. “Okay,” he agrees. He kicks off his shoes without letting go of Hardison’s wrist and starts making his way toward the bathroom.

Hardison makes a half hearted protest that sounds more like a squawk than actual words, but otherwise follows Eliot meekly through the bedroom and into the massive bathroom. Eliot lets go of Hardison with a lot more reluctance than he’s willing to admit, and only so that he can turn on the shower head and start stripping off his own clothes. 

Hardison hesitates in the doorway, looking like he might fall over without the support of the door jam. “I… I knew you’d find me,” he says, his voice faltering and his arms hugged tight over his chest. “I never doubted-”

“Yes, you did,” Eliot interrupts. He casts his shirt aside as he turns to look at Hardison. “You knew we’d try, but there was no guarantee we’d make it.”

The muscles in Hardison’s jaw twitch and he stares hard at the floor. “But you did,” he says, very quietly.

Eliot’s halfway through taking off his pants, his belt undone and his fly unbuttoned, but even on his darkest day he wouldn’t be able to resist that expression on Hardison’s face. He crosses the bathroom in tight strides, his hands gripping Hardison’s hips and pulling him in close. His throat feels too tight to speak, so he lets his body do the talking. He leans into Hardison, pulling him in for a deep kiss, starting slow before working his way into Hardison’s mouth.

Hardison makes a choked off sound, but then his hands are tangled in Eliot’s hair and he’s taking control of the kiss, turning it hard and searing. He turns, pressing Eliot up against the wall and Eliot lets him, gives over his control to Hardison because that’s what Hardison needs. 

When they finally pull apart they’re both flushed and panting, but there’s a glimmer of life back in Hardison’s eyes. “We gonna take this shower or not?” Eliot asks, prodding gently as his hands slip under the waistband of Hardison’s track pants. Hardison’s head bobs as he nods, and he pulls the worn out hoodie over his head. Eliot helps by pulling down Hardison’s pants, but then steps back to take care of the rest of his own clothing while Hardison steps out of his pants.

As soon as they’re both fully naked, Hardison grabs Eliot’s hand and pulls him through the glass door into the shower. It’s a nice shower, easily big enough to fit two grown men, and the water pressure is top notch. There’s recessed lighting along the top, casting them in a soft glow. 

Hardison immediately moves to stand directly under the spray, tilting his head back so that the water can beat down against his face, over his broad shoulders and down the muscled planes of his back. Eliot hangs back for a few minutes, just watching, appreciating; he hadn’t planned a last time they would be together before Moreau brought everything crashing down around him, but this time he’s going to savor it. Hardison looks magnificent, the light reflecting off of the water beading on his skin, highlighting every dip and curve of his muscles.

It only takes a couple of minutes before Eliot breaks, unable to bear hanging back any longer. He moves forward, making sure to telegraph his movements before he presses himself against Hardison from behind. He presses a soft kiss to Hardison’s shoulder blade, his hands smoothing over the ridges of Hardison’s abs. He knows every inch of Hardison’s body, knows it intimately; he would recognize Hardison’s body even if he was blindfolded, concussed, and drugged out of his mind. Three years of casual sex that had stopped feeling casual at an alarmingly fast rate, nearly four years now of working together, of watching Hardison’s back, of  _ watching Hardison _ .

Eliot closes his eyes, not needing to see as he starts to trail kisses along Hardison’s shoulders, over the knobs of his spine and then up to the soft hairs at the nape of his neck. Hardison shivers against him, despite the fact that the water surrounding them is just on this side of too hot.

Hardison turns in Eliot’s arms so that they’re face to face. There’s something in his expression that Eliot can’t read, or maybe that Eliot just doesn’t want to, and Eliot leans up to kiss Hardison’s mouth, preempting anything he might have said. Hardison allows it, leaning down and craning his neck just slightly, just enough to adjust their heights to the perfect angle.

“Eliot-” Hardison starts, his voice cracking a little around the edges. He’s still tense despite the hot water, his body practically vibrating, his muscles wound tight and hard. His grip around Eliot borders on too tight, but Eliot’s far from bothered.

“What do you need?” Eliot asks, his own voice low and hoarse. The shower stall is filled with steam, the air itself hot and close and with Hardison crowded in so close, unintentionally looming over Eliot, it’s almost overwhelmingly intimate. He looks up to meet Hardison’s eyes, and there are barely inches between them, so close that Eliot almost feels like he could fall into Hardison’s eyes and get lost there.

“I-” Hardison starts. He takes a breath, hard enough that his entire body expands with the force of it, and if he wasn’t holding on to Eliot so tightly Eliot’s certain that Hardison’s hands would be shaking. His gaze moves over Eliot, flitting away from his eyes, down his body, and Hardison licks his lips. 

“Bed?” Eliot suggests quietly. He can’t breathe right, and he’s used to this, he’s been far more overwhelmed in far more dangerous situations, but he still needs to defuse. And, anyway, when things inevitably go the direction Hardison is thinking, he’d rather not risk it in a wet, steam filled room - they’re both too off balance for that.

Hardison swallows hard and nods. But he doesn’t let go of Eliot, doesn’t make any move to actually follow through. So Eliot takes the initiative. He turns off the water, gently propelling Hardison out of the shower. Hardison stands stiff and still, swaying slightly on the rug while Eliot finds them two - moderately dry - towels. Drying off is a brief, cursory thing, but it’s enough to protect Hardison’s sheets from getting too wet to be comfortably slept on. 

Nudging Hardison towards the bedroom seems to snap him out of his daze. He presses himself against Eliot like he can’t tolerate there being any air between them; it’s a tricky business making it to the bed without falling over when Hardison is practically trying to climb him like a tree. They make it, just barely, and Eliot lets Hardison tip him backwards onto the mattress - here, more than anywhere else in this apartment, Hardison’s penchant for excess is evident. The bed is a California King that takes up most of the room, the sheets Egyptian cotton with a ridiculously high thread count. But this bed is familiar to Eliot by now, intimately so, and he has more important things to focus on. He wiggles just enough so that he’s fully on the bed, drawing Hardison up after him. 

Hardison has apparently decided that he has a desperate need to kiss, lick, or bite every inch of Eliot’s skin. Eliot appreciates that, he appreciates that a lot. But it’s not what Hardison really needs right now. Hardison is hard and dripping precum already, rutting unconsciously into the hollow of Eliot’s hip. There’s desperation, urgency, his movements stiff and jerky, and if he keeps this up Hardison is going to hurt himself.

“Hey,” Eliot says, cupping Hardison’s head in both hands and forcing him to focus back on Eliot’s face. He has to push through his own lust to do it, but right now what Hardison needs is more important.

Hardison glances up at Eliot, and Eliot can’t ignore the way there’s too much white around his eyes, they way he’s biting his lower lip. 

Eliot leans in and kisses him, slow and gentle, sucking on Hardison’s lower lip to stop him from biting it. “I’ve got you,” he says quietly when they break apart. He meets and holds Hardison’s gaze, waiting until Hardison swallows and nods, just a shallow dip of his head. “You trust me?” 

Hardison nods again, and he lets Eliot tip him sideways. He stretches out on the bed next to Eliot, not once looking away from him. Eliot smiles, small and reassuring, dragging a hand down Hardison’s chest before rolling toward the edge of the bed and the bedside table where the lube is stored. He hadn’t planned this, so he isn’t fully prepared, but that’s okay. He knows what Hardison likes, knows how to give him what he needs.

Hardison stays still and pliant, waiting for Eliot to come back. It won’t take much, Hardison is already so wound up, so on edge. Still, Eliot takes his time. Now it’s his turn to kiss and touch, to linger over the individual parts of Hardison’s body. Hardison takes one shaky breath, and then another, and Eliot knows that he’s using the technique that Parker had taught him only hours ago, that a part of Hardison’s mind is still trapped in that coffin. 

Eliot is generous with the lube, making sure that Hardison’s cock is properly coated in it and doing the same to the insides of his own thighs. He settles down, and Hardison gets with the picture, wrapping an arm around Eliot’s waist and pulling him in tight so that they’re chest-to-back. Eliot spreads his legs, just enough to guide Hardison in between them before clamping his thighs down around Hardison. 

Hardison makes a choked off moan, pressing his face into Eliot’s hair. His grip around Eliot’s waist is almost painful, his breath shaky and hot against the back of Eliot’s neck. His thrusts start out jerky and uneven, but gradually his movements even out, slow but deep in the slick slide between Eliot’s thighs. 

It’s good. It’s always good with Hardison. Eliot tells himself that that’s all it is, Hardison’s skill, the practice of all of the times they’ve had together before, the familiarity they have with each other’s body; that’s all that’s necessary to explain the electricity under prickling under Eliot’s skin, the way his stomach is twisting and clenching already with so little simulation. It definitely has nothing to do with the fact that this is the last time he’s going to allow himself to have this, nothing to do with the preemptive ache in his chest and the curling of desperation in the back of his mind.

Hardison is making low, needy sounds, his hips working faster as he holds Eliot too close, too tight. It’s amazing, and yet it’s not enough. Hardison keeps one hand on Eliot’s hip, holding him still, holding him close, but the other hand starts roaming up and down Eliot’s chest. He pauses to flick Eliot’s nipple - just the way Eliot likes, just the right way to make Eliot shiver and moan. Eliot reaches down to grip himself, just holding on at first, steadying himself, squeezing the base slightly to take the edge off.

“I need you, baby,” Hardison murmurs, his voice low and husky, lost in the slide of their bodies moving together. “Fuck, I-I-”

“I’ve got you,” Eliot insists. He twists around, craning his neck back toward Hardison. He wouldn’t be able to reach on his own, but Hardison moves to meet him, leaning up on one elbow so that they can kiss, wet and needy. Eliot reaches back, fumbling blindly until he finds Hardison’s ass to grip and pull him closer.

“I’ve missed this, missed you,” Hardison whispers, despite Eliot’s efforts to kiss the words out of his mouth. His hand slides down Eliot’s chest, pushing Eliot’s hand out of the way to start stroking him. Hardison’s hand is warm and so soft. He knows just the right rhythm, just the right pressure, just the right moment to reach further down and cup Eliot’s balls in his board palm.

Eliot has to close his eyes against the rush of heat in the pit of his stomach, his fingernails digging into the flesh of Hardison’s ass; but Hardison doesn’t complain, if anything he’s spurred on faster. He makes a low, needy sound of warning, his teeth digging into the meat of Eliot’s shoulder as he thrusts jerkily and comes in hot spurts all over Eliot’s thighs and lower stomach.

The sting of Hardison’s teeth working a bruise into his skin, the heat of Hardison’s orgasm against his skin, the way Hardison’s whole body jerks in pleasure against Eliot’s back, it’s enough to push him over the edge. He keeps his hand on Hardison’s ass, fisting his free hand in the sheets to ground himself as his orgasm rushes through him. Hardison milks him through it, murmuring soft endearments until Eliot thinks he’s going to just shatter into pieces.

And then it’s done. Eliot has to lie very still with his eyes closed and his hand curled into a fist in the sheets while he reminds himself that this is the last time. It’s done. It’s over.

He can feel Hardison draped against his back, loose and pliant in post-coital bliss. He’s smiling against Eliot’s shoulder blade and he wipes his hand off on Eliot’s hip - which under other circumstances Eliot would have complained about, but right now he can’t bring himself to break the blissful quiet with a complaint, even a joking one. 

It takes a monumental amount of effort, but after several minutes of wallowing in it, Eliot forces himself to pull away. Hardison whines, a low sound that Eliot knows from experience means he’s on the edge of sleep, and he tries to cling to Eliot. “I’m all sticky,” Eliot grumbles, trying to pry Hardison’s fingers off of his wrist.

“Come back,” Hardison insists, reluctantly letting go. 

Eliot rolls his eyes, but doesn’t argue. He finds a damp washcloth in the bathroom, scrubbing himself down and coming back out to clean up Hardison too. Hardison grins and reaches out blindly as soon as Eliot comes within reach. He’s flopped over on his stomach, his face smashed into the pillow, legs sprawled out carelessly, and it’s so beautiful that Eliot’s heart hurts.

It’s too much. All Eliot wants to do is crawl back into that bed and wrap Hardison around himself like a blanket. He steels himself to pull away, to do the smart thing and go put his clothes back on. He won’t leave, not entirely; Hardison seems a lot calmer, tired and pleased after his orgasm, but Eliot will stay close, sitting the living room and entertaining himself. Just in case.

Except Hardison won’t let go. He blinks at Eliot with one eye, the rest of his face hidden in the plush pillow. “Please stay,” he whispers, his voice cracking around the edges. “Just… just for a little while.”

Eliot’s spent years developing his resolve, building up a tolerance to pressure, learning counter torture-techniques. But those two, barely audible words, break him instantly. He folds, dropping back down onto the bed and letting Hardison wrap himself around him. He reaches for the thick duvet that had ended up bunched up at the foot of the bed and pulls it up around them both. Hardison snakes both arms around Eliot’s waist, dragging him against his chest like an oversized teddy bear. Eliot huffs, but doesn’t resist, internally telling himself that this isn’t the end of the world, that he can survive this - he’s survived worse. Except for how he hasn’t.

Hardison takes a slow, deep breath, his nose buried in Eliot’s hair. And Eliot sees it coming, like a tsunami barreling unavoidably toward him. “I love you,” Hardison says, words quiet and muffled but heartbreakingly sincere.

“Don’t-” Eliot protests, just a fraction of a second too late. The damage is done and Hardison’s body has gone lax with sleep. “Fuck,” Eliot swears, staring up at the shadowed ceiling and resolutely ignoring the stinging of his eyes.

He wants to leave. He absolutely should leave. Immediately.

But he can’t bring himself to. It’s selfish. It may not  _ technically _ be breaking any rules, but it’s a terrible, horrible, dangerous idea.

He doesn’t leave. He closes his eyes against the sting of tears and lets himself sink into the warmth and comfort of the ridiculously lavish bed. He listens to the steady, even sound of Hardison’s breathing next to his ear. And he tells himself that this is the last night, the last time Hardison will ever hold him like this - he might as well make the most of it.

Hardison’s voice saying those three damning words are still echoing in his ears as he falls asleep.

*****

Eliot wakes with a start just as the first rays of dawn are peeking in through the window.

Hardison is starfished on his stomach, somehow taking up almost all of the ridiculously large bed, and snoring softly. His face is mashed into the pillow with the duvet pulled up around his shoulders like a cape, and it really shouldn’t be attractive. But it is. Almost embarrassingly so.

Getting out of that bed is the hardest thing Eliot has ever had to do; well, it feels that way in the moment, anyway. He lets himself linger just long enough to press a soft kiss to the back of Hardison’s knuckles, but it’s the only concession he allows himself to make, the only moment of weakness. Then he heads for the bathroom, picking his clothes up off of the floor and getting dressed. 

He isn’t rushing, he tells himself, he’s just being efficient. He definitely isn’t terrified of Hardison waking up before he makes it to the door. He makes it back out into the living room and is halfway through tying his shoes when he realizes his tactical error.

“You’re running away,” Parker says, closing the front door as quietly as she’d opened; apparently, she has a key, which is perhaps the most surprising part of her appearance in the apartment.

“Do I look like I’m running?” Eliot snaps, not looking up from his laces.

“Yes,” she says simply, her tone flat.

Eliot groans, unable to contain the sound. He runs a hand over his face, feeling as though grittiness and exhaustion is seeping out of every pore. “I ain’t-” he starts, but stops, shaking his head. Parker, of all people, should understand. She shouldn’t  _ want _ him here. “I have to go,” he says, because he can’t think of anything else to say. He pushes himself to his feet, feeling a hundred years old and a thousand pounds too heavy.

“Hardison doesn’t want you to go.” Parker’s still standing in front of the door, her arms crossed over her chest and her expression hard.

Eliot grits his teeth and shakes his head, because otherwise he’s going to say something he will definitely regret. “He has you.”

“ _ I _ want you to stay.” Parker almost spits the words, and Eliot knows that he’s on a very short list of people capable of seeing through the projection of anger to the deeper feelings that Parker is trying to hide.

“I’m not doing this with you, Parker,” Eliot growls, just as defensive in his own way and it shouldn’t feel like a relief to know that Parker can see through him too.

“Eliot,  _ you _ want to be here! Why are you being so difficult!” Parker uncrosses her arms only to ball her hands into fists and stomp her foot - silently, because that’s Parker for you - against the floor.

Eliot finishes tying his laces with so much force that he almost breaks them and surges to his feet. “It wouldn’t work, Parker,” he snaps, giving her his fiercest glare.

“Why not?” she demands, but she’s softened, going from angry to hurt and confused as her fingers uncurl and her shoulders slump.

Eliot grits his teeth so hard that they might break, but he doesn’t bother trying to glare her down. “I have to go,” he says, his own voice going soft against his will. He doesn’t give Parker a chance to say anything else as he pushes his way past her. He gets his hand on the doorknob before she stops him, grabbing his arm and halting his forward momentum.

She stares at him long and hard, but Eliot can’t hold her gaze for more than a few seconds. She sighs and let’s him go. “You know where to find us when you’re done being stupid,” she huffs, turning on her heel and disappearing into the bedroom before he can respond. 

Eliot stays standing there with his hand on the doorknob for too long. He can’t move, can’t breathe, as though Parker had ripped out his insides and taken them with her. When he finally manages to unfreeze himself, he wrenches the door open so hard he almost breaks it.

He doesn’t look back as he hurries to the elevator. 

He never sees the inside of that apartment again.

*****

They don’t talk about it. 

Eliot spends the next couple of weeks in silent terror that Hardison or Parker will bring it up. He avoids them as much as he can, limits their opportunities. Hardison comes close, a couple of times, just brief moments when his eyes go soft and his hands twitch as though he wants to reach out to Eliot. But he catches himself each time, and in the end it’s left silent, so many things unspoken between them.

Eliot tells himself it’s better that way.

And things go back to normal. Or, as normal as things ever are for them. Eliot jumps at the chance to spend a week dragging “The Mako” around the Peruvian rainforest. It gives him some distance, a chance to refocus on the job. 

So he focuses, and he does his job. Eventually Hardison starts bickering with him again, and Parker, well… she’s Parker.  That doesn’t mean it’s easy. There are moments when he could swear they’re taunting him; moments when Parker sits a little bit too close, and Hardison insists on giving him little “gifts”.

Eliot does his best to ignore it, to pretend that he’s not aching for them. He has his own moments, moments when his resolve wavers, when he cracks just a little. He doesn’t like seeing Parker with Craig Mattingly any more than Hardison does, and he almost cracks when they come up against the ring of grifters. Hardison is definitely taunting him with that stupid bet - no matter which way it had worked out Eliot would have ended up out to dinner with Hardison in a potentially very romantic setting. He manages to wiggle his way out of the dinner, and ducks out of the bar before Hardison can confront him about the plants or rat him out to Parker. But still, it was a close call. Too close.

Eliot tells himself that he’s fine.

He’s gotten very good at lying to himself.

*****

It’s almost a relief when they have to split up for a while after everything that goes down with Lattimer and Dubenich. Nate takes to the sea. Sophie goes… somewhere, probably to steal something shiny and priceless. And Parker and Hardison go on a world tour of tall buildings to jump off of.

Eliot, for his part, keeps himself busy. He catches up with some old friends, disarms a couple of nuclear missiles, gets tangled up in a couple of coups. It’s great. Relaxing. It gives him distance from… everything, everyone. It’s exactly what he needs.

Except that just before they split up a new app appeared on his phone. It’s a modified version of Snapchat, he thinks, and it is distinctly lacking in options to delete the app or log out of the account. Even changing phones doesn’t get rid of it, and Eliot decides it’s better off not to ask how Hardison managed that.

It wouldn’t even be that big of a deal, except that Parker and Hardison are now definitely baiting him. It starts out innocently enough. Parker sends him a bunch of videos of herself pushing Hardison off of buildings - which, admittedly, is pretty hilarious. Hardison mostly sends pictures of the food their eating, or silly selfies of them in front of landmarks. They tour museums - Parker sends him a couple of snaps of her loot, presumably before Hardison makes her put it back. There are lots of selfies using ridiculous filters with train or airplane seats in the background, boredom-selfies most likely. Hardison falls asleep on a train somewhere in Italy and Parker doodles hearts onto his cheek. They go shopping in Paris and Hardison sends shots of Parker wearing the most ostentatious  _ high fashion  _ outfits they can find.

The last straw comes when Parker sends a video of Hardison. He’s asleep, sprawled out on his stomach on some high class hotel bed. He’s talking in his sleep, mumbling nonsense about frogs and turnips, and Parker is working so hard to muffle her giggles that the footage is almost nauseatingly shaky. Her unsteady hand on the camera phone also just so happens to ‘accidentally’ pan away from Hardison’s face and show that he’s completely naked except for the sheet which is just barely wound around his waist.

Eliot watches the video six times and then throws his phone at the nearest wall. 

*****

He finds them in Rio de Janeiro; not that he’d really had to search, there are plenty of markers in the backgrounds of the photos they send to make obvious where they are, and he highly doubts that’s an accident. 

Of course, he’s coming from halfway around the world. Three flights - on shitty, small cargo planes, because he isn’t exactly traveling legally - two trains, and six buses eventually get him to the hotel they’re staying at. His luggage - such as it was - had ended up lost somewhere over the Pacific, he hasn’t been able to close his eyes without seeing that goddamn video playing over and over again on the insides of his eyelids, and he’d accidentally gotten caught up in a small revolution on his way up from Chile.

It’s only though luck and years of training that he doesn’t get arrested just coming near the posh high rise hotel where Hardison and Parker are holed up. He smells like a sewer, is in desperate need of a hairbrush, is bleeding in at least three places, and definitely should not have accepted the flask from that chicken farmer on the last bus. By the time he makes it to the right door, he’s seeing double of everything and he has to lean against the door jam to keep himself on his feet. It would be relief to know that in less than a minute he’ll be with the two people in the world that he trusts most to watch his back, except for at the same time he sort of feels like he’s about to stumble in front of a firing squad. 

If he’d been thinking more clearly he would have just knocked like a normal person. But thinking clearly went out the window somewhere around Uruguay, and there’s a master key in the pocket of the bellhop uniform he stole to cover his own mud-and-blood soaked clothes. Which means that he opens the door and almost runs face first into Parker’s taser.

“About time,” Parker declares, putting her taser away after the two second it takes for her to process who he is. “You look like shit.” Eliot growls wordlessly at her in response, and promptly trips over the threshold. She catches him, bracing herself to hold his weight until he can stead himself and wrinkles her nose. “You smell like shit too,” she complains.

“Hey man,” Hardison greets him casually - from a safe distance on the far side of the room. “How’s your vacation going?”

“You!” Eliot snarls, gesticulating violently in Hardison’s direction. “This is because of you!” He doesn’t  _ intend _ to throw the phone at Hardison’s head, but when he goes to shove it in the direction of Hardison’s face it slips out of his hand.

Parker tips him down onto the couch and he just barely catches himself from smashing face first into the cushions. “You can’t just leave well enough alone,” Eliot says, burying both fists into the too soft cushions so that he can shove himself into a semi-upright position.

“Not when you’re being stupid, I can’t, no,” Hardison says. His arms are crossed over his chest, his voice cool, and he doesn’t even try to deny it.

“You can’t just… you can’t just con me into this!” Eliot is at the end of his rope, and it’s a little bit like being drunk except with more blood loss and less fine motor control. “And if you were going to you could at least… at least try harder! Not just send me a bunch of stupid pictures. What the hell kind of plan is that?”

“It worked.” Parker shrugs. She’d disappeared at some point during Eliot’s rant, but he blinks and she’s back, unpacking a first aid kit on the coffee table in front of him. “Now, show me where you’re hurt.”

“I’m fine,” Eliot insists. He knows it’s the exhaustion and the blood loss playing tricks on him, but now that he’s here, now that they’re right in front of him, it’s getting harder to remember why he’s supposed to be angry.

“You’re bleeding,” she contradicts, wrestling him out of his stolen bellhop jacket despite his protests.

“I… I might have been… mildly stabbed,” he admits. He makes a half hearted attempt to swat her away, but it’s thoroughly ineffective.

“You were  _ stabbed _ ?” Hardison squawks, coming around the couch so that he can hover over Parker’s shoulder.

“Mildly!” Eliot insists. “ _ Mildly _ stabbed.”

“Hardison, sit on him,” Parker orders, her voice no nonsense as she tries to get Eliot to hold still long enough for her to clean the gash on his bicep.

“No! Absolutely not,” Eliot complains. Hardison doesn’t sit on him, but he does sit  _ beside  _ him on the couch and try to hold Eliot’s hand. Eliot snarls and tries to swat him away, with no better results than he’d gotten with Parker. After roughly ninety seconds of what might as well be two four year olds having a slap fight over naptime, Hardison gets his entire arm wound around Eliot’s arm and their fingers threaded together in a tight hold.

Parker beams and starts swabbing the gash on Eliot’s arm with an alcohol wipe. 

Eliot’s head falls back and thunks a little too hard against the back of the couch without his permission. “We can’t do this,” he tells the ceiling. “There are rules. We can’t…”

Hardison uses his free hand to brush Eliot’s hair away from his face. His fingers are so soft, so gentle, and Eliot can’t stop himself from closing his eyes and leaning in to the touch. “Eliot,” he starts, and that’s his gentle voice, the voice he uses on scared clients and Parker when she’s having a melt down.

It take a monumental force of will for Eliot to roll his head away from Hardison’s touch. He barely even feels Parker’s ministrations on his arm, but he can feel her presence, her knees knocking against his as she sits on the coffee table facing him, her breath coming in soft puffs against his skin. “The rules,” he insists. “It’s wrong… and… and dangerous. You… You’ve got each other. And… and there’s the crew to think about. And promises. I’m bad at promises. I can’t-”

“Here,” someone says, and Eliot can’t be sure which of them it is. He feels the cool rim of a glass against his lips and he opens his mouth automatically, swallowing the cool water gratefully. His eyes are still closed and he almost doesn’t even notice when someone pushes a pill into his mouth. That’s not okay. He should be panicking. Except it’s Parker and Hardison. Parker’s steady hands patching him up. Hardison’s long, gentle fingers stroking through his hair. 

And Eliot is just so goddamn tired. Too tired to open his eyes, too tired to keep fighting. Too tired to keep pretending.

*****

Eliot wakes up face down on the couch, naked but for a blanket wrapped around him, and feeling like he’s been run over by a truck a couple dozen times.

He’s also being stared at by Hardison.

He grunts, an involuntary plosive as he tries to push himself up out of the cushions. He lifts up the edge of the blanket, scowling down at himself. “Did you give me a sponge bath?” he demands, ignoring the way his voice scratches and cracks around the words, his throat too dry and his head too heavy. “Did you  _ drug  _ me so that you could get me naked and give me a sponge bath?”

“First of all, you stank. You had an entire swap stuck to clothes, and you smelled like you’d been dead for a week,” Hardison says, absolutely unashamed. “Secondly, we gave you tylenol. You were practically unconscious already when you showed up here.”

Eliot tries to scowl at Hardison, but his head hurts too much so he has to settle for clutching the blanket to his chest in a half hearted attempt to preserve his already shredded dignity. He also accepts the glass of water that Hardison hands him, though he pointedly - pettily - doesn’t thank him for it.

“So, I guess you got our snaps,” Hardison says, while Eliot is still drinking the water - presumably so that Eliot can’t throw the empty glass at him. 

Eliot considers throwing it at him anyway. But he’s warm, and semi-clean, and still so fucking tired. “Why?” he asks instead, unable to make himself meet Hardison’s gaze.

“Because you’re being an idiot,” Hardison answers with a shrug, like it’s that simple.

“I’m not! I’m-” Eliot protests and cuts himself off, dropping his aching head into his hands. “The rules-”

“Yeah, what rules are those exactly?” Parker asks from somewhere behind him; Eliot doesn’t bother to look.

“The rules that keep things from getting messy,” Eliot says tiredly. “The sex rules.”

There’s a beat of silence during which Parker and Hardison exchange a look over Eliot’s head. “Are you saying this isn’t already messy?” Hardison asks with a raised eyebrow and a pointed glance at the used medical supplies that Parker apparently hadn’t bothered to clean up.

“You two are-” Eliot starts.

“Openly inviting you to join our relationship,” Hardison cuts him off.

“We work better together. The three of us,” Parker adds, like that’s perfectly rational. And… Eliot definitely had reasons why that wasn’t rational, at some point, he’s sure he did, but he can’t seem to remember them any more.

“I can’t- inter-crew dating, sex on jobs, it’s-”

“A completely hypocritical thing to start worrying about now.” Hardison tilts his head and raises a pointed eyebrow.

“It wasn’t supposed to go down like this,” Eliot protests, shaking his head and immediately regretting it. “One time only, no encores.”

“And yet.” Hardison sounds so smug Eliot’s tempted to punch him on reflex. “Our crew is nothing but dating and sex on the job. I mean, even if you really did want to stay out of it, you never had a problem with Nate and Sophie. And you never tried to stop me and Parker. As it turns out, we work  _ better _ when we’re romantically satisfied and getting laid on the regular.”

Eliot huffs. He runs his hands through his hair - which is surprisingly soft and not-tangled and definitely has at least three small braids in it that were not there when he fell asleep - and tries to resist the urge to start pulling it out. “I can’t make any promises,” he says quietly, and he can’t blame a dry throat for the way his voice cracks this time. “I can’t- I’m not the guy who sticks around.”

“Eliot,” Parker says, her voice too soft and too gentle in a way that should feel false but is actually surprisingly effective at being comforting. The couch shifts as she climbs up and perches on its back, her hip only inches from Eliot’s face - it’s all he can do not to let his head tilt sideways to rest against her thigh. “You’ve left before. We all leave every once in awhile. But you always come back. For us.”

Eliot blinks, then gives in to the urge to tilt his head up enough to stare at her.

She shrugs, smiling down at him. “I mean, technically, Hardison and I left this time and you tracked us all around the world just so that you could yell at us and pass out on our couch.”

“Eliot, can you honestly, no bullshit, say that if we were in trouble, or hell, forget trouble, if we called and said ‘we need you’ that you wouldn’t show up? Can you really say that?” Hardison asks. He’s staring at Eliot too closely, too intensely, like he’s looking right through Eliot into his soul and Eliot doesn’t know when Hardison had learned to do that but… he kind of likes it.

Eliot has to swallow. Then he has to swallow again, hard. He blinks a couple of times, licks his lips, fusses with the blanket. And doesn’t answer.

Hardison grins the grin that he gives every high tech security system that he manages to bend to his will. He leans forward, gently placing one hand on Eliot’s knee and using the other to tip Eliot’s chin up so their eyes meet. “You’ve already made the promise. You didn’t have to say it out loud. You made the promise four years ago when you left me your phone number. And you’ve been pretty damn good at keeping it so far.”

Eliot can’t… he doesn’t know what to do with that. So he does the only thing he can do - he leans in and kisses Hardison, soft but edged with desperation. “Fuck you,” he mutters, pretending that his throat isn’t feeling too tight and his eyes aren’t stinging.

“Well, if you-” Hardison starts.

“No, nu-huh,” Parker protests, but her voice is light and cheerful. “It’s Thursday.” She springs up from the couch and Eliot turns to watch her reflexively. He watches her strip her t-shirt over her head and toss it carelessly to the floor as she heads for the bedroom. “Come on.”

“Uh-” Eliot blinks from Parker to Hardison in confusion. “Thursday?”

Hardison nods gravely, but his lips are twitching at the edges with a barely contained smirk. “Thursday is naked cuddling day,” he explains. He stands, offering his hand out to Eliot. “Better hurry up, she is not a patient woman.”

“Naked… cuddling…” Eliot repeats blankly. But he takes Hardison’s hand, letting Hardison hoist him to his feet. 

Hardison grins, leaning in and pressing a kiss to his lips that’s chaste but holds the promise of so much more. “Naked cuddling,” he confirms, propelling Eliot after Parker.

Eliot couldn’t have resisted even if he’d wanted to.


End file.
